Orange Drop

I recognize most people don't understand, but I am still grieving Cap. I've been reading grief books, so I know judging your grief only makes it worse. But I do judge myself because I know caring so much about a hamster is not seen as Acceptable. So many glamorous things are happening right now. Getting tapped for exciting development projects and extended meetings with my favorite artist and pitching to the crown jewel with a crown jewel. But underneath everything I do and say there's a weight on my heart and a crumpled photo in my purse. I feel embarrassed even writing this, but to my knowledge only six people read this blog and no one else can find it. I just wish I was normal.

Yesterday we took down her cage. I've been dreading it. I didn't know what would be worse--always looking in to find no one home or no home at all. But it was time, Saturday January 28th, 2023 at 3:30 PM. We sorted things into donate and toss, I walked the shavings to the dumpster, we took a photo of her paw print in the sand bath. I knew the sand bath would be the worst. I guess because it was the last place I could touch she touched. Put a peanut in her ashes box.

Now there's open space on the wall and a picture frame where her whole life used to be.

We decided to take a walk and drop her extra pellets along the way for neighborhood mice. I thought hiking up the mountain for sunset might be nice. Up at the top the sun looked just like a juicy, peeled orange. It dropped heavy and slow.

I always feel equally enlivened and melancholy at sunset. What an incredible gift to live a single day, and what an incredible responsibility to live it well. The sun disappearing feels so final. That's a wrap on January 28th, 2023 forever for all time. But tomorrow the goodbye repeats itself. I think I worry about final goodbyes, but the truth is there's always a new one right around the corner.

Pack It Up

My college cut its football program mid-term in the winter of my junior year. The team had been struggling for a long time. (Forever?) Football is simply not a sport for an itty bitty school. Too much money, not enough bodies. And yet there were some bodies.

A guy I went to Japan with played because, I think, he played in high school. Another guy in my dorm played a sport every term, and football was his fall choice, I suppose. I think some guys played because the coach asked and why not? But one guy in my grade chose our college TO play football. I suspect his grades or athletic skills were not strong enough for any other school. So here we was. I think he had one friend. I didn't see him at social events. I certainly didn't see him at church. I noticed he ate all his meals early, before other students filled the dining room. No clue what his major was.

When we got the campus-wide email the team has been cut, he packed up his dorm, threw the boxes in his car, and drove home. He failed all his classes and no one ever saw him again.

I Wish I Was Her

2022 was one of my favorite years of life. And then it kicked me in my teeth on its way out the door. Highs so enduring I forgot they were highs. Walking on clouds became status quo--until the plummet. I try very hard to remember things are what they are, not how they end.

Another year of habits. Workout every day, journal, read, meditate once a week, Scrapbook Sundays, no writing weekends, log everything, fill my checkered notebook with to-dos and to-do them.

I dislike how undone these twelve months feel. So much happened, but to what end is TBA. Which is why you're supposed to enjoy the journey and not the destination, but sorry, no matter how comfy the seats in first class, there are certain places you'd prefer not to land. There are certain trips I would never buy tickets for had I known there'd be an emergency landing in Boise, you know?

I worked with two of my all-time artistic idols this year. I was challenged creatively, I made them laugh, I sat in rooms torn between "pinch me" and "why me." I pitched and sold, twice. I wrote a new sample, revised a screenplay a dozen times, produced a live reading of it. I wrote another screenplay. I sold a short. I developed. An actress I admire "responded to the work" and we met. I wrote a new play, had a beautiful workshop of it. I consulted. I wrote for a fancy benefit of stars, attended a premiere of even more sparkles. I was pulled into the corner private booth of the Sunset Tower Hotel, surrounded by three powerful women I'd only ever seen on screens. People let me down, but maybe it wasn't their job to hold me up. I wrote five B____ series, still an accomplishment, but overshadowed by my vicious drive to Do More. I spent this past week writing a new outline for the first feature I'll write in 2023.

Hm, a few music improv shows. None very good, actually. But I did them all the same. A podcast recording. Parties, mixers, coffees.

There was, in reverse order, Mexico Christmas, post-Thanksgiving Scottsdale, a sister visit, a Santa Monica getaway, the hottest funnest week ever in service to a reunion concert and soy milkshakes, bucket list roller coasters with my mom, Wisconsin pontooning with my dad and aunt, Tahiti (!), the windiest wildest Palm Desert range, a celebration meeting of the Alice minds in a large tiled rental, San Diego family seaside excursion, Chicago for Dal's wedding, long-planned Disneyland, cool Arizona winter weekend, a Valentine cabin.

There were patterns. Like, what is my body doing when my mind doesn't know what's next? Or pretending it's not a big deal until it's not. There's no shortcut to putting in the time. There were unlearned lessons. About mind reading and getting older.

There were a million magic moments with beloved Cap. And then a thousand terrible moments I still can't shake. I walk around the sunny neighborhood in a raincloud. My coach at gymnastics encourages me I'm so close to the handspring even though what he really means is, "I can tell you've been crying in this Tumbling for Adults Class." The morning after she died, Puhg and I went for breakfast at the cafe with orange wallpaper. "Time to pretend," he sighed, stereotypical east side book in hand, as we walked in.

I saw some amazing theatre for the first time in years. At least a dozen productions, finally, in this tinsel town. Search for Intelligent Life and 2:22 and Man of God, the stand-outs. I liked several books--Evelyn Hugo and The Brittanys for certain--some TV, mainly Players and Yellowjackets, and sure, movies too. I can't think of what meant something to me right now. I had a low tolerance for things written by men this year, which can be a challenge. But I definitely know I loved going to the movies this year. I adore the Burbank escalators and the hummus shop around the corner and the butter machine and the Freestyle Coke and discussing with Puhg on the breezy ride home. My favorite albums were Beach Bunny and Taylor Swift. I got into a stupid little cooking game on my phone, and I really did enjoy dressing cartoon salads.

I lost a friend, I made a friend, I reconnected with all the best and took note of who wasn't there. Most of the brightest moments are never what you think. Laughing on the patio as the moon looks over me and Puhg, that day Cap ate her first blueberry, the Gatekeeper with my mom before park close, chatting with my dad while I looked at the sun setting on palm trees, my sister prancing around an art supply shop, our wooden bungalow, playing Mafia in a pool, all the Cornish Pasties and all the people I ate them with. So many sunsets in so many places. I cherished each one.

I tried my best. If there's anything you could say about me, it's that I always always tried my best.

Simply Having

Frothy ocean, reading poolside, lime juice in the hot tub, chatting with a window, pastry pile every morning, Christmas Eve nachos and then Christmas nachos, humid salt air, smoke in the palm forest, beach massage, Diet Cokes on the patio, dumb little holiday tree, sunglasses gone, tips counted, bright stars, sandcastle lump, iguanas and hawks, biking around the bend, red lipstick, time moving on.

A New Solstice

 I've been running for over fifteen years. I generally like it. Good for my heart. A time to push, to think.

When I decide on a distance, I don't like to stop until I finish. It's more than a preference. I feel starting up after I'm stalled at a light is much harder than jogging in place. But it's more than that too. It's my compulsion to complete my goals.

Come cramps, come fatigue, come anything short of blood, I feel unsettled if I break. And I don't like running less than two miles either. It's a nice even number.

But this month I've been pausing to walk. I know I could power through, but it doesn't seem so important. I can't muster as much. I'm just going slower.

And going slower is hard for me. I like getting everything done. I like being reliable. Things are falling through the cracks. I don't answer emails as quickly and sloth around plans.Things I typically look forward to are shrouded in quicksand.

I've always loved the fullness of the summer solstice, but maybe it's time to appreciate the winter solstice. A day to do the most vs. a day to do the least. What a stupid loser holiday. But here it is anyway. The sun setting so early, me mixing drinking chocolate, watching light fade from the patio, the pink palm tree skyline in the distance.

Two Sleepy Gals

 

Until Next Time, Cap

Those last days at home are so crystalized. A week before she left, Puhg was at a concert, so we had a girls' night in. I made popcorn and watched _______ with her snuggled on my chest. I thought the movie was terrible and this bothers me, that the last film we ever watched together was so stupid. Even though she wouldn't know that. When it ended I played our song in the living room.

I don't remember how it became our song. I think I happened to be holding her while some 90s Spotify playlist looped. I danced with her fuzzy self and sang along "I'll never let you go, I'll never let you go." I found myself humming it all the time to her. A calming lullaby before she was comfortable with us. Hard to believe she came so frightened and jumpy, eventually a puddle in our hands. It was past midnight when Puhg's keys jangled in the door. Her ears perked as they always did.

5 AM Sunday I shuffled out to the living room as I often do when I can't sleep. She curled up into my lap as I read for two hours. I cried--unsure if I was imagining something was off or not. Puhg and I went on a long walk. We finally got a vet appointment, days away. At night she was eating apples again. In the morning we woke up our favorite way--hearing the water bottle click. But just a few hours later everything changed.

She was Sick. I called all over LA for help. She was manic then tired, climbing upside down then unable to hold her head up. Chewing then tossing her pellets around. We found a hamster ER, and flew there, her in a shoebox despising every bump and turn. A team whisked her away for urgent care.

We sat for hours watching dogs, cats, and one wheezing hedgehog come in. A guinea pig didn't make it. I didn't notice the time pass even though I had nothing to do but wonder if I'd ever see my dear one again. We were relieved she made it. The doctor recommended an overnight stay for pneumonia, antibiotics, oxygen. We were led to the back, tapped on her glass, told her it would be okay. Would it?

Days of waiting for "the call" gave me a permanent stomachache. I typically have healthy boundaries with my phone. I often leave it for short errands or keep it face down with friends. But not last week. I had it on full volume next to me 24/7. The doctor would call in the morning, then in the evening. They were kind, bright professionals who referred to my beloved with a chuckle: she is quite round or the little lady. We feared for a buzz off-schedule, meaning the worst. I made my ringtone "Bette Davis Eyes" last year. I thought it was funny. It was no longer funny.

When we visited two days later she was different. Exhausted and white. We held her and hoped. We gave her her ham house and a blueberry, which she ate slowly. I willed her to be better. We agreed to a bill for more everything. We took photos. I look horrible or maybe just like the saddest I've ever been. We cancelled Thanksgiving travel and spent the day quietly, vaguely tossing around the idea of a movie we wouldn't see. At 6 the call came: she improved! She ate some, seemed a little more energized, dialed down the oxygen! Her team would continue this plan. Oh, the hope. The puffing rising hope. She'll be home tomorrow.

But tomorrow her situation worsened. And would we like to come by, sooner than expected. I sobbed and put together a respectable outfit. Black pants, the sweater she chewed through the day she came home, my hamster headband. Filled my purse with seeds and fruit and cheese.

Agreeing to euthanize her was awful. Even now delusion creeps in. She couldn't comfortably breathe without an oxygen tank, and she couldn't really drink, and she seemed confused, but what if we'd just tried to take her? Maybe it was simply too bright in that new cage. Maybe there weren't enough shavings. Maybe it was all a mistake. We sat with her, held her, told her everything we could. But was it enough time? She was struggling for too long as is. But was it enough time? Was it enough time? She picked up the cheese but was too fatigued to chew. Herself only two weeks earlier would be shocked. She never passed up cheese. She never even stored it. Cheese is meant to be snacked immediately. Once we gave her a peanut and she shoved the whole thing in her pouch and darted to the back corner of her cage. It became a mantra for us: take the peanut and run. She managed to nibble at a blueberry, her last. She was sedated with a shot, her last memories of us before the finale. My head shrieked this isn't real. Was it enough time? 

I hate life going on. I've become small. I hate how the days build on themselves. I held her yesterday two days ago three days ago four days ago a week ago. She was carried away in a daze, going to the big wheel in the sky. And I also hate the big wheel in the sky.

She bit me one time, a year ago. It was so unexpected I yelped and plopped her back in her cage. After I washed the blood down the drain I realized she was limping. Poor thing had sprained her foot, lashed out in fear. We took away her toys to heal, I bandaged my finger. After a week she was scampering again. All that remained was a mark on my nail. A crack from her sharp teeth. I watched that crack move up and up over the months. A kind of calendar. Until one day I didn't notice it had left me at all.

It was a bright afternoon. Should we do anything? Puhg asked. I had put on extra sunscreen that morning. I didn't know why. He suggested the beach and I said, yeah, sure, why not? We never go to the beach, but we were 20 minutes away. We walked to the sparkling ocean. I drew her name in the sand. It would be washed away but not that I'd see. When it was time to go, we got back in the car and the wind knocked out of me. Blaring over the radio--that obscure 90s hit. I'll never let you go. I'll never let you go.

I can't stand mornings. I can't coming home. I got a new ringtone. There's no one to eat the vegetable scraps from dinner. I can't stand going to bed.

I have 300 videos of her because how could I not? They help. She was a true individual--so chonky and bossy but ultimately sweet. Unlike every other hamster I've had (angels to be sure), she loved to be pet and held and snooze on us. She communicated with nips and sounds. She brusked when happy and purred when alert and had trained us to give her a treat when she squeaked. She and I would have long long talks at night. Some of the videos are short--a few seconds of her running or cleaning. Others are long, a whole grooming session, minutes of her cozying into my shoulder, but they always end before I want them to.

I remember the stupid things, the mood rings, the bracelets and the beads

Nickels and dimes, yours and mine, did you cash in on your dreams?